


Wild Born

by cloud_wolfbane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dog John, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:06:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloud_wolfbane/pseuds/cloud_wolfbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a dog in search of his place in the world. He finds it with a human as out of place in the world as he is. Things get a little strange after that.</p><p>(Now with illustrations)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

John is born on a cool April morning. 

He has no memory of those first few days, and of course it was some time before he earned the name John, but he does remember days filled with darkness and the comforting warmth of his mother. He roots around for the milk scent that calls to his hungry belly and sleeps to the soft snuffles of his brothers and sisters. 

When he is a few weeks old, his eyes finally open to the great wide world. It does not take John long to learn he is very different from his siblings. 

His mother tells him that when she went into heat, the farmer brought in a herding dog from the next farm to breed more herding dogs. The next day a wolf, looking for an easy meal, found his mother and mated her as well. John is the only pup that came from the wolf. 

His brothers and sisters have black and white pelts and floppy ears. John has pale blonde along his sides leading to a darker brown along his back, and his ears stand up straight. His claws are black and he does not have the strange dewclaw of his siblings. In fact, the only trait he gains from his husky/shepherd mother is her pale blue eyes. 

As John grows older, his legs grow longer and longer and his soft puppy body gains lean muscle. His siblings are all sent to nearby farms, but John stays. 

At six moon cycles, it is only his mother, his elder brother, and John left at the farm. Every morning the farmer takes his mother and brother out to the fields to herd the sheep. John watches from the fence, always curious and always willing to learn, but the farmer never lets him try. 

His mother tells him stories about the fierceness, the cunning, and the strength of the wolf blood in his veins, but John knows it is the wolf the humans avoid. They fear his strength and his teeth. His mother tells him that the farmer will take him to the pound and a family that does not have to worry about sheep or chickens will adopt him. John hates the idea. He will not grow fat and lazy at the feet of his humans, being taken for walkies when they have the time. 

When he knows he can wait no longer, John wakes early in the morning. He nuzzles his mother, pressing his larger flank against hers, trying to etch her milk-scent into his fur. 

She licks his muzzle, and wishes him well. 

John pushes out of the barn and claws under the surrounding fence. He does not look back. 

John has not chosen a good time to leave the farm. The cold time is coming quickly, even now the mornings are greeted with frost on the fields, but John relishes the challenge. He is finally free to stretch his legs in the woods, running as fast and far as he wishes. He is careful to avoid the local farms, knowing if a farmer caught sight of him along the fences they would not hesitate to fire their thunder sticks. 

He learns quickly to track the scent of rabbit, and how to sneak up on a squirrel before they can scurry back up their trees. He can snatch a goose out of mid-launch and on one memorable occasion, tracks a wounded deer for three days. 

He occasionally catches the scent of wandering wolves and coyotes, but he keeps to himself. The first snows are on the ground when he made his way back to human territory. He is far from the farms now, and finds himself by a collection of large brick buildings filled with human pups. They are all male, which seems strange, but humans have unusual customs. 

He stays around the buildings, keeping out of sight in the trees and bushes. The human pups are sloppy with their food and John finds himself feasting on the strangest things. He watches them with curiosity, missing the warmth of the barn and the comfort of his family. 

The pups seem to make their own packs amongst themselves, which makes it very easy to find Sherlock. He stays on his own, never invited to join the packs. He is a strange-looking human. His limbs are too long for his body, like a newborn colt, but his features are sharp and angular and his eyes unusually pale. It is as if Sherlock has a bit of wolf in him as well, a bit of the wild thing that makes humans wary. 

John finds himself following Sherlock throughout the days at the school, curious about the lone-boy. At first he thinks his name is Freak and then Sherlock-Freak, but it becomes obvious that Freak is one of those words humans say to be hateful. Like the farmer sometimes called him dog with a scowl on his face and anger in his scent. 

John may have never approached Sherlock if it wasn’t for the other boys. 

During the great nightly migration when the boys move from one building to the next, a pack of boys surround Sherlock. They smell of anger, hatred, and soured pride. They call Sherlock ‘Freak’ and push him against a tree. 

John understands dominance displays. Understands showing your belly to your alpha or lowering your tail to a scolding mother, but he has never seen a dominance display of five on one. It seems unfair, and despite his calm demeanor, Sherlock smells of sharp fear. 

He steps out of the trees and snarls. 

The boys all pause, turning to look at the 150 pounds of angry wolf. John has his lips pulled back to reveal his long fangs. His ears tilt back and his tail is held level to his body. All along his nape he can feel the tickle of fur standing on end. 

“Holy shit, it’s a wolf,” one of the boys yells. They stink of fear, and John relishes in the strength of it. 

He growls, deep in his throat, and takes a few stalking steps forward. The boys run for their lives. One of them smells of urine. 

Sherlock stays behind, still pressed against the tree. His fear scent is still there, but not nearly as sharp. Instead, his scent is being over come by curiosity and relief. 

John relaxes his muzzle and ears, letting his tail wag behind him. He gives his best harmless look, blue eyes wide. 

“You’re not all wolf, are you? Not with those eyes,” Sherlock remarks, his voice strangely deep for such a coltish pup. 

John lets his tail wag harder and trots over to him. 

Hand barely shaking, Sherlock touches his brow. 

When John doesn’t bite him, he runs his fingers along the soft spot between his ears and gives a few scratches. 

It is glorious. When the boy tries to move way, John presses against his thigh and paws at his arm. 

“Alright, alright,” Sherlock gives a small smile and starts a more vigorous scratch of his ears. 

John is in heaven, and when Sherlock hits just the right spot he feels his leg give an involuntary shake. 

“I have to go,” Sherlock tells him after much too little time. 

John paws at his leg again, but Sherlock shakes his head. “Sorry boy, I have to go.” He gives one more pat of his head before loping off towards the buildings. “Thank you,” he whispers, without looking back, but John hears him anyways. 

 

***

It gets a bit dangerous after that. John has to go deeper and deeper into the woods as animal control starts hunting the forest. He guesses the boys have told about him and it makes hunting very hard, but he doesn’t want to leave Sherlock unguarded. 

When the darkest day begins approaching, Sherlock leaves the buildings in one of the strange mechanical beasts humans call cars. 

John follows him. It would have been hard if the car had gone very far, but it stays just above press paw pace for a few miles before stopping at a human den. 

It is a large den, made of brick and surrounded by forest on all sides. They even have a few horses stabled nearby and a small duck pond. 

Sherlock appears to be a strange mixture of relief and anxiety, but John can detect Sherlock’s family scent all around the building and knows this is home. 

The animal control does not hunt anywhere near the den, and John is once more free to hunt without fear. The ducks have long ago left the pond for warmer climates, and the rabbits are safe in their dens. It takes all the strength and cunning his mother had once praised him with to find food. 

Sherlock is frequently outside, though his lack of fur leaves him red-faced and shivering. John keeps a close eye on him when he is out, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself in the snow. 

On one occasion, Sherlock knells by the half frozen duck pond and digs around in the water with a net. Whatever he is looking for, it is too far out and Sherlock falls into the water with a splash.

John is at his side in a flash, jumping into the water and grasping Sherlock’s coat in his jaws. He tugs the wayward pup out of the pond with a displeased huff. 

“Hello, again,” Sherlock greets, eyes wide as he shivers uncontrollably. 

John trusts Sherlock to take care of his health about as well as he trusts any pup when they first open their eyes, which is to say, not at all. 

He keeps his teeth firmly in the coat and starts to tug Sherlock towards the house. 

“No, boy, you can’t go there, no!” Sherlock tugs uselessly at his coat, trying to dislodge the stubborn animal. 

John ignores him. When he has Sherlock at the front door he released the coat long enough to give a deep bark. 

Sherlock tries to chase him away, but John does not move. When the door is opened he is met with an older man that smells slightly of Sherlock. The family scent is obvious and John is pleased to note the man is Sherlock’s pack brother from an older litter. 

“Sherlock, what in the world?” the man scowls, looking at the wet boy and dog on his porch. 

“This is,” Sherlock’s face twists in thought, “this is John. He saved my life. Twice. So you can’t chase him off. I owe him a debt.” Sherlock holds his head up and his back straight, like a posturing alpha. 

The man sighs and rubs at the place between his eyes. “Sherlock, you are very lucky mummy and father are not here; they would not approve.” He steps away from the doorway, “Come along then, let’s get you warmed up before we have to get a few toes removed.” 

Sherlock scowls as he stomps through the door. 

John turns to leave, trusting the other to take care of his pack mate, but Sherlock calls him back. 

“John, come on then,” Sherlock beckons. 

He turns, pausing at the porch. ‘John’ he thought. Sherlock has given him a name, a real honest name. He hasn’t had one before; his mother, the farmer, none of them had given him one. 

He walks into the house. 

Sherlock leads him up a set of stairs and into a small room with a slippery floor. John has absolutely no interest in being shoved into the small rain box, but he doesn’t want to scratch Sherlock with his claws. 

He ends up standing miserably under the pelting spray of warm water as Sherlock scrubs him down with soap that smells of mint. 

When the rain stops, John jumps from the box and shakes out his wet fur. Droplets of water splatter the walls and Sherlock, but his fur is nicely cleaned and he no longer feels cold. 

“Thanks for that,” Sherlock scowls, swiping the water from his face. 

He dries them both with fluffy towels, needing four of them to fully dry John. 

They leave the small room with a mess of dirty towels and wet walls, but Sherlock seems unconcerned. He leads John into the kitchen and hands him a whole chunk of raw steak with the bone still attached. John curls up on the floor and munches happily on it. 

“I’ll be right back John. If you need to chew on anything look for Mycroft’s shoes.” Sherlock wanders off somewhere while John enjoys his dinner. 

“ I suppose you’re the so called ‘wolf’ running about my brother’s school. I should have known,” the brother comments. He looks at John with disgust, but his scent is mild with contemplation. 

John glances at him, eyes wide and guileless. 

***

The next day, Sherlock lets him back outside and John returns to roaming the grounds. Occasionally the boy will come out and John will follow along at his side; other times he stays in the trees and keeps an eye on his charge. 

The darkest day comes and goes, promising longer days to come. Sherlock only stays half a moon cycle at his den before returning to the buildings John will learn are called school. 

Many moon cycles pass with Sherlock rotating between school and home, with John always following after. He keeps a close eye on his human. Every once in awhile the human pups will threaten him again and John has to show his teeth. 

The idiots in animal control never catch him. 

John is full grown, his puppy fat long faded and his fur thick and healthy, when Sherlock approaches him with a strange look on his face. 

“John,” he calls, from the side of the den. 

Sherlock never calls for John, never remarks on the days he walks at his side or the days he doesn’t. John approaches quickly, though he smells no injury. 

Sherlock kneels in front of him. “John I’m leaving for London. It’s a large city and not meant for a wild wolf dog like you. “

John stares at him, not comprehending. 

“I have to go, and this time you won’t be able to follow. Be safe John, you’re… you’re a good friend.” Sherlock tugs him into a tight hug, burring his face in John’s neck. 

He whines, licking at his face. Sherlock has never hugged him; sometimes it took quite the pawing to get his ears scratched. 

“Good boy,” Sherlock whispers, and then he is gone, back into the house. John knows not to follow. 

That day, Sherlock settles into a black car with a large bag and they drive in the opposite direction of the school. John follows as fast as he can, but even at press paw pace the car goes too fast and too far for him to follow. 

It is the start of the growing season, and while the land seems to be stuck in perpetual rain, it is warm. John doesn’t hesitate to follow after his human. He keeps to the side of the road, careful of the roaring cars. 

The road seems to stretch for ages. He spends many a moon cycle wandering along the path. Occasionally, he will get distracted and spend days in the woods tracking meals and exploring, but always he keeps to the winding road as human buildings grow more and more numerous. 

He knows, deep in his marrow, when he reaches London. It is a sprawling city, a forest of buildings and herds of humans as far as the eye can see. It is teeming with life and bustle and suites Sherlock. His human with a bit of wild in his eye is suited to this urban forest in a way he never was in the countryside. 

John wandered the streets, nose always scenting for his human. He is careful to avoid the main paths where humans gather like deer at a salt lick. The dark side paths have their own collection of humans, but they are strange creatures gathered under tattered pelts and smell so strongly of the city around them that they hardly have any scent at all. 

When John finds Sherlock again it has been six moon cycles since he had hugged him at the den. John expects to find Sherlock in one of the towering dens of the city, but instead the troublesome pup is curled under a small bridge. He is shaking from cold and curled into a tight ball under a long pelt. 

John trots over and curls around the shivering human. 

Sherlock blinks in surprise, his eyes wide as he looks at John pressed against him. “John?” 

John takes a moment to bask in his human’s shock. Sherlock doubted him, silly human. He huffs a warm breath against his face and gives Sherlock a cheeky lick on his nose. 

Sherlock sputters, scrubbing the saliva from his nose. “What are you?” he asks, curling his arms around John’s great head in their second hug. “Thank you, John, thank you,” he murmurs against his fur. 

That night they sleep curled around each other like a pile of newborn pups. 

John is accustomed to Sherlock’s moods. On their many walks together Sherlock spends some in constant chatter, flicking wildly from one subject to the next. On other days Sherlock will stay silent, his thoughts confined to himself. 

The next day, Sherlock is in a chatty mood. He walks the streets with John, explaining what he had been doing since he got to London. Sherlock is attending a new school, a bigger one, called university. He likes the science labs and the medical classes, but the students are just as idiotic as the ones from the country. He hates living on campus and had only lasted a few months before moving to the streets. 

He exhilarates in the challenge, of living without the influence of his family and free of the constraints of human norms. Unfortunately, Sherlock explains, living on the streets is harder than he expected. 

Sherlock is determined to learn the ways of the lone humans that live in the dark places. He speaks to those that most do not notice and learns the underbelly of the city as only he could. 

John follows at his side, rarely wandering far. He spends the early morning hunting and occasionally he will bring Sherlock an extra rat or a pigeon when he gets lucky. Of course Sherlock ruins them by cooking them over barrel fires by the bridge, but humans are strange like that. 

Mycroft shows up one day while John is watching from afar. The pack mates argue about something; Mycroft calling Sherlock a child. Eventually the older man leaves smelling of frustration and worry. 

Every once in awhile Sherlock will come back from one of the human dens smelling of something sharp and bitter. It isn’t quite a sickness, but the scent is similar enough it sets John’s teeth on edge. 

One day, when he goes in search of lunch, John comes back to find Sherlock in his usual spot beneath the bridge. It is a warm day, but the man is shaking terribly and the bitter scent is overwhelming. 

Something is very, very wrong. He tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve, then licks his face. Sherlock doesn’t respond at all. John whines in worry. He tries to catch the attention of the other humans that stay under the bridge, but they push him away. 

Sherlock is dying, his heart slowing. John has to get help. 

He follows the overlapping scent lines of the city to the building that smells of Mycroft. He does not have time to try and sneak his way in. Instead, John leaps through the doors. He winds up in the middle of a room with old men and a huge fireplace. Not willing to search the building, John throws his head back and howls. 

Mycroft comes out of a back room looking startled. There is another man behind him, with silver fur. “John, what the?” 

John barks before grabbing Mycroft’s jacket and tugging. 

“Alright, John. Where is he? Take me to Sherlock.” 

John runs out of the building, making sure he is being followed. Mycroft and the silver man follow close behind as he runs through the winding London alleys. 

The silver man does not hesitate to scoop Sherlock into his arms. “We’ll need to get him to the hospital, he doesn’t have much time.” 

“Take him, go.” Mycroft huffs, out of breath from the run over. 

The other man took off at a run, which was impressive considering he was carrying a full-grown man. 

***

Sherlock is taken to St. Bart’s hospital only a few blocks away from the bridge. John stays outside the hospital; keeping a constant eye on the door they brought his human through. He perks up whenever he sees Mycroft or Lestrade, the silver man, going from the building, but Sherlock is never with them. 

After three sunrises of watching, Mycroft approaches him. “Hello, John,” he greets. He holds out a hand with a collar and leash. 

John lifts his lip in disgust. He isn’t wearing a leash, absolutely not. 

“You want to see Sherlock don’t you? I owe you a favor, but I can’t bring you into the hospital without these.” 

John keeps his lip lifted in disgust, but he stays still for Mycroft to slip the leather collar around his neck. It isn’t as stifling as he thought it would be, but he still hates the leash. He follows at Mycroft’s side, refusing to be dragged along like a stupid mongrel. 

The hospital smells of sickness and bleach and John hates it. The floor was slippery beneath his paws and his claws click clicked along the tile, but he is worried about his human and willing to endure much more discomfort for the sake of seeing him. 

Sherlock is in his own room on the third floor of the building. He is curled up on the small bed, his body occasionally shivering even as sweat breaks across his brow. He smells of vomit and dried sweat, but the horrible bitter thing from before is almost completely gone. 

Mycroft unclicks his leash, giving John free reign to nudge Sherlock’s arm and lick at his fingers. 

Sherlock shifts, groaning. “John,” he murmurs, cracking open one eye to look at him. 

John gives a few wags of his tail to show his happiness. Sherlock is going to be okay. 

John is allowed to stay in the hospital from that point on. Occasionally, Mycroft, Lestrade, or one of the nurses will clip him back to the leash and lead him outside for a walk, but mostly he stays in the room, curled at the base of the small bed and protecting his foolish human. 

On one of his walks, Lestrade takes him off the leash and they make a lazy circle around Hyde Park. 

“I met Sherlock a few months ago,” the man says. “Thought he was mad, he walked onto a crime scene like he owned it, saying the murderer had to be the mother and were we all idiots?” Lestrade sighs and gives John a pat on the head. “When we found out it was the mother, I had him explain it to me. All I could think was, this man is a genius. Then I noticed the marks on his arm. He was a genius with a drug addiction and a stubborn streak a mile wide, how could I help him?” 

John steps up to him and gives his hand a comforting lick. 

Lestrade smiles at him, “You’re a good boy, John. Not sure how a posh lad like Sherlock ended up with a horse of a dog named John, but you are good for him.”

John likes Lestrade and in the days that pass he sees more of the man until he leads them both to a small flat on Montague Street. 

The flat is apparently a compromise between Mycroft and Sherlock to get the man back in doors. 

John isn’t sure what to think of it. The leash had disappeared the moment he got inside, but no one removes the collar. It is a nice collar. Dark leather with a simple metal plate riveted to the front. It reads simply, ‘John’. It lacks one of those obnoxious jingly tags most dogs have. The collar is a sign that not only is Sherlock John’s human, but John is Sherlock’s dog. He had spent so long without a pack, suddenly having one is a little overwhelming. 

Luckily, Sherlock suits John better than any other human could. He rigs the front door with a series of wires and teaches John how to open the door from either side. Whenever he remembers to lie out food it is always left over human meals, never the dry rocks most dogs eat.

John comes and goes as he pleases and his new den always has fresh water and a soft bed to spend the night. Sherlock never bothers with a dog bed, but has no qualms with John on his own bed. They often curl around each other like they had in the streets, at least on the days Sherlock deems to sleep, anyways. 

The first time John sees a crime scene is a complete accident. He spends most days wandering the streets and keeping an eye on the homeless of the city. Occasionally, he hauls one of them to the nearest hospital when their sick scent grows dangerous. The homeless start calling him Doctor and offer small treats of food that can hardly afford to spare. John loves his strange people, the dark underbelly of the city that he only shares with Sherlock. 

On days when there are no cases and Sherlock can’t stand to stay in the flat a moment longer, he and John walk the city together. 

It is on one of these walks that they meet Angelo. 

The flashing lights of a crime scene attract Sherlock like a moth to a flame, and what is John to do, but follow after?

They are in a dangerous part of town, beside a series of abandoned buildings. The police have roped off the entrance to one of the buildings, but Sherlock does not hesitate to slip under the tape and march up to the officers. 

John has to duck to enter the crime scene, but he wags his tail happily at the sight of Detective Lestrade. 

The man is with a small collection of humans surrounding a very dead one on the floor. John looks at the body carefully, scenting blood from the wound to the head. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing here? I didn’t call you,” Lestrade growls, posturing at an unwanted visitor to his territory. 

John pads forward and presses against Lestrade in apology. Sherlock has trouble with territory boundaries sometimes; he is still mad at the human for plucking some of his fur for an experiment. 

“John?” Lestrade blinks in surprise, patting John’s head out of habit. 

“We were taking a walk. I thought I could lend some assistance. Especially since you have arrested the wrong man.” He points at a rather large human in cuffs that John didn’t notice at first. The man smells of pasta and sweets; John doubts he has the personality to kill much of anything. 

“He was caught in the area with the murder weapon, Freak, I think we can take it from here, and where the hell did you get a wolf?” One of the officers yells. She is scowling at Sherlock as if she is fit to attack. 

John knows the word Freak is a bad one, has heard it often enough in reference to his human. He takes a protective step in front of his charge and snarls. 

“Thank you, John, that’s enough now,” Sherlock says, scratching his ears. His scent shifts to pleased. 

John looks up at him, happy to be of help. 

“As I was saying before, that man is not the murderer. He spent the time of death, 2 to 3 hours ago judging by the body, in an entirely different part of the city housebreaking. From the mud on his shoes I would say Camden; he came here to sell his wares. The sauce on his lapel says our housebreaker is trying to save money to open a restaurant; hardly the sort to risk his dreams on murdering a banker on the wrong side of town. This man was murdered for revenge, not a robbery gone wrong like you think,” Sherlock spouts in rapid fire, pointing at the different signs of his deductions. 

John can’t help himself; he lets out a soft woof in amazement. 

“Wait just a second, this man was found near the murder weapon, a broken bat used to bash the man’s skull in,” Lestrade argues, pointing at the bat in question. 

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Sherlock dismisses, kneeling by the bat. “Come here, John.” 

“Now Sherlock, I’m not going to have him contaminating my crime scene,” Lestrade growls, rather impressively for a human, too. 

John glances back and forth between the men, but can’t resist going to Sherlock. 

“Can you scent the murderer, John? Come on boy, find him.”

John sniffs deeply at the broken bat. He can scent the heavy copper blood smell from the murdered man, there is the slightest whiff of the arrested man, but not strong enough for him to have even picked it up. Underneath all of that is the disgusting scent of too much cologne merged with fear and anger and hate. He shakes his head, snorting to get the smell from his nose. 

“Find him,” Sherlock orders, a huge grin on his face. 

John can’t resist. He springs from the crime scene, a howl on his breath as he follows the murder’s scent through the streets. Five blocks away he finds a pile of sick behind a dumpster. He keys in on it, knowing the murderer had paused here to collect himself after the murder. 

Sherlock orders a slimly little man to collect a sample before following after John. 

The scent grows fainter towards the Thames. The filthy water over-powering everything else, but John is a hunter on the prowl. He tracks the scent to a lone bar along one of the piers. 

It is packed with drunkards and weekend revelers, but John finds the man. He is a middle-aged banker with a bit of blood on his shirtsleeve and smelling of too strong cologne. 

He admits to the murder before the police even book him. 

“That was ‘mazing mister Holmes. The name’s Angelo, and when I get out you’ll get free food at my place whenever you want. You and your companion,” the previously accused man approaches them. He has a bright grin on his face, surprisingly friendly for a man that is still going to jail. 

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock murmurs, looking overwhelmed. 

While the police take away both men, Lestrade approaches, a wry grin on his lips. “I didn’t know you had taught John to track. Don’t know why I’m surprised.” 

Sherlock shrugs, flipping up his coat collar and smelling of smug satisfaction. “I didn’t. Come along John, I believe I owe you a steak.”

“Wait, what do you mean you didn’t. Sherlock. SHERLOCK!” 

John and Sherlock race off into the night, Lestrade shouting after. 

***

Life is good. 

John enjoys his freedom and his new pack. 

Mycroft gives the best treats, but Lestrade keeps beef jerky in his pocket just about constantly, and Sherlock had once spent and entire afternoon finding the absolute ideal spot for ear scratching. 

John spends nights listening to Sherlock play the violin, and occasionally he can convince the man to curl up on the couch with him and enjoy a night of petting and deductions in front of the fireplace. 

John now goes to most cases with Sherlock. He learns more about tracking, about identifying the scents of dangerous things and dangerous people. 

He goes for the throat of any human foolish enough to try and harm Sherlock and the entire Metropolitan Police Department know to leave the large wolfdog alone, leash or not. 

Every once in awhile Sherlock will return to the den with the same bitter tang in his scent as that night long ago, but it is never strong enough to worry John. 

He should have worried. 

John comes home early one day, feeling ready for an afternoon nap. When he enters the flat, Sherlock is sitting on the couch with a bag of white powder in front of him. 

The powder is a heavily concentrated version of the bitter scent that made Sherlock so sick. 

And his human, his brilliant, idiotic human is staring at it with such a dark scent swirling about him, John doesn’t know how he could have missed it. He runs forward, too swift for the consulting detective, and grasps the bag between his teeth. 

“No, John! Bad Dog! Give me that back, give it here,” Sherlock orders, face twisted in anger and worry. 

John knows Sherlock could track him through all of London without much trouble; that just hiding the bag won’t be enough. He tosses the bag in the air and swallows it whole. 

The powder bursts in his mouth, coating his tongue and filling his senses with bitter. 

“John, Oh John,” Sherlock cries. He rushes forward and sticks his fingers down John’s throat, deep in the back so John gags. 

He growls his displeasure, but his whole body shakes as he hurls up the bag and his lunch. 

Sherlock, thankfully, ignores the mess and speed dials his brother. “I need an emergency vet, now.” 

John can’t hear the other end of the conversation, which is strange because usually he can. Everything seems sort of fuzzy around the edges; sound, touch, smell, taste. Everything is bitter and fading. 

He welcomes the darkness, even as he hears Sherlock calling his name. 

***

The first time he wakes up is hardly waking at all. He can’t open his eyes; just feels far to many hands on him and the chemical burn of a hospital in his nose. Then there is a pinch at his neck and he goes back to the darkness. 

The second time, everything is very blurry, but he can smell Sherlock and hear him whispering over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He whines at the sound, Sherlock shouldn’t be so very sad. 

The first time he wakes up with any real knowledge, he is on the biggest dog bed he has ever seen. He is perched a comfortable distance from a massive fireplace. There is something on his back and he has to look at it to confirm what his nose already knows. Sherlock’s pelt, the long black one with the high collar, is thrown across his back. Sherlock wears the coat so often, every single fiber is permeated with his scent, a comforting smell that means home and safety and somehow danger and excitement. 

Further inspection of the room reveals something that freezes the blood in his veins. He is in Mycroft’s den and Sherlock is nowhere to be found. 

It’s only a few minutes before Mycroft shows himself. He, amazingly, sits on the floor beside John and runs his hand along his neck, petting the longer fur there. 

John stares at him, wide eyed and lost. 

Mycroft explains as best he can, in confusing human words John is not sure he understands. He says something about cocaine, that Sherlock is getting help for some sort of sickness. That John will stay with Mycroft until he is better.

John is sick with worry, but Mycroft does not smell of lies and he says Sherlock will be back, so he believes him. 

The coming days pass slowly. He spends most of them sleeping, trying to regain his strength from whatever the powder did to him. 

A gentle maid that works for Mycroft, brings him food and helps him out into a backyard that is much to small for him. 

When a full moon cycle has passed, he tries to sneak out the front door, but Mycroft stops him. 

In retaliation, he waits until the maid is busy the next day and attacks Mycroft’s wardrobe without prejudice. He tears into every shoe, shirt, suit, and trouser he can get his fangs on. Then he marks his territory for good measure. 

By the time Mycroft gets home, John is perched in front of the wardrobe enjoying the leather from a 200-quid loafer. 

He expects Mycroft to be mad, hopes the man will kick him from his den. Instead the elder Holmes sinks to the floor with a sigh, pressing his back to the wall. “You are so well suited to my brother, I sometimes think you sprang from the ground just for him,” he murmurs, running his fingers along John’s scruff and scratching that perfect spot behind and to the right of his ears. 

John glares at him, feeling betrayed. 

Mycroft laughs. “I doubt you understand a word I’m saying, but you can chew ever business suit from here to Saville Row and I would not be angry with you. I could never have forced Sherlock into Rehab, it would not have worked. My dear brother would have simply escaped and promptly overdosed just to spite me, but you, you impossible canine. You risk your life to stop him from doing something truly foolish and he signs himself in the next day. It’s been a month, and while not the model patient, Sherlock is finally overcoming his addiction.” 

John wants to be mad at him. He wants to claw and bite and growl until he is let out of the house that does not suit him, but Mycroft is pack and he smells of sadness and remembrance. John lets go of the shoe and places his head in Mycroft’s lap, curling around his body. 

“Good boy,” Mycroft sighs and pets his head. They stay like that for hours. 

In the coming days, Mycroft finally realizes that John is not an animal to be kept indoors for any length of time and allows him out. 

John spends his days checking on the homeless and taking the sick to shelters and hospitals, but every night he returns to Mycroft’s den. 

When two moon cycles have passed and John is beyond worried for his human, Mycroft puts him in an expensive sedan and takes him into the country. John enjoys shedding on the dark seats and sticking his head out the window. 

They stop at a massive building surrounded by white gates. At the entrance John is hooked up to the hated leash and Mycroft slips a green vest around his neck that reads Service Dog. 

The staff is not happy with him.

“You can’t bring that dog in here,” one of the nurses tries to tell Mycroft. 

The man stares her down with a raised brow, a rather elegant version of Alpha posturing. “Ma’am I have permission from the head of the hospital to allow my brother a visit with his service dog, I suggest you check the paperwork.”

The woman checks the paperwork and promptly allows them inside. 

Mycroft leads them through a maze of corridors, stopping at a large room. All of the men have the scent of medicine on them and are twitching oddly. 

Sherlock is curled up on one of the couches, looking sullen. 

John barks once. 

Sherlock looks up in surprise. 

John’s tail wags at warp speed. He rushes forward to greet his human; luckily Mycroft drops the leash before he chokes himself. 

Sherlock barely makes it out of the chair before he has an armful of happy wolfdog. 

John absolutely bathes his face; licking every available surface he can get ahold of until Sherlock is pushing him away with a sputter. 

“You weren’t supposed to bring him here,” Sherlock tries to scowl at Mycroft, but can’t quite manage it. 

“I can assure you that if I had kept him away much longer he would have found his way here himself,” 

Sherlock looks skeptical, but apparently remembers John showing up in London 6 months after he left home. 

They spend the rest of the visit outside. Sherlock and John race about the center like pups, and for the first time ever, John plays a game of fetch with an old tennis ball. He finds he can grab the ball out of midair up to eight feet. 

When John decides its time for a nap in the sunlight, he settles beside a small table. Sherlock and Mycroft argue above him, sounding like pups that never quite decided who would be Alpha. 

John listens to them with half an ear, used to their bickering. 

“He deserves a family, a proper one that won’t get him killed.” 

“It would not suite him, you of all people should understand that. He would be bored.” 

“He deserves to be happy.” 

“You think that is not with you.” 

“It is not safe.”

“Then when you get out of here, you can find him a new home yourself, I will take no part of it.” 

John doesn’t quite understand what they are talking about, but the scent of discontent is almost overpowering. 

He fights the leash when they put it back on him, but Sherlock tells him he has to go, so John goes, following Mycroft back to the car. 

If John had understood that conversation between the brothers, he would have found what happens next to be a true irony indeed.


	2. Part 2

He is making rounds of his territory a few days later when a wire noose tightens around his neck. 

He snarls and bites, throwing his body from side to side to dislodge the wire, but another noose tightens around his neck and John finds himself trapped on both sides. 

“Feisty little beast, isn’t he,” a slimy voice comments. 

John turns his head enough to see the two that have captured him. Holding one long pole is Anderson and holding the other is Sally Donovan. He recognizes both of them from cases with Sherlock and Lestrade. Both of them had been prone to calling Sherlock Freak before he set them straight. 

“Hold him tight, we have to get him into the crate,” Sally orders. 

They drag him, choking the whole way, into a large cage in the back of the forensics van. John snarls at them, fangs bared while Sally jabs him in the side with a needle. 

Everything gets a bit fuzzy after that. 

John isn’t sure what he expected when he wakes up, but it was not the pound. 

Barking dogs surround him on all sides. Some of them are so mad with captivity that there is no voice in their endless barking. 

He tries to stand, but his paws won’t coordinate. His tongue feels like sandpaper in his mouth. He’s been drugged, again, great. 

He more falls, than walks over to the water bowl. The water is warm and tastes of grit, but he laps it up anyways. 

With water in his system, his head feels clearer, and his legs less shaky. He trots slowly around the pen. Working the drugs out of his system. 

The dogs burst into uproar around him as the door on the far wall opens with a loud clang. Three humans enter the area, two of them are dressed in military uniforms and the other smells like he works at the pound. 

The military men go straight to a cage in the middle that holds a litter of German Shepard mixes. They play with the puppies for a while. John watches, curious. They seemed to be testing the puppies for temperament, something he had seen a few times before his brothers and sisters were taken. 

After a time, one of the soldiers gets bored and wanders down the rows. “Bloody hell, look at this one. If it weren’t for his eyes I’d say you had a wolf in here,” he exclaims, stopping in front of John. 

The attendant walks over with a chuckle. “We said the same thing when he was brought in. We’re going to have a hard time adopting him out. Most families don’t have room for a dog this big and they tend to need an active life style.”

“Does he have any training?” 

“Don’t know,” the attendant shrugs, “he just came in today.” 

The other soldier comes over, carrying a squirming puppy under each arm. “We came here for dogs to train, not charity cases.” 

“Look at him, let’s just see if he would be any good at it,” the other solider argues. His nametag reads ‘Murray’. 

“Fine, have at it,” the other soldier sighs. 

Murray grins and approaches the pen so he was only a few inches away. “Come here boy,” he calls. 

John walks over. He hopes that if he could convince these soldiers to take him out of the pound that he will have a chance to run away to London. 

“Sit,” Murray orders. 

John sits. 

“Down,” he says. 

John lies down. 

On and on it goes; up, down, sit, stay, roll over, shake, speak. Murray goes through every trick he can think of and John follows each one. 

They bring him to a fenced in area outside and John goes through another round of stay and come and heel. 

Murray claps, impressed. “He’s defiantly had some training. Well trained too, considering he listened without hesitation.” 

“First Sergeant is going to furious,” the other soldier, remarks, skeptical.

“He’s perfect, Sergeant will understand.” 

John has to sit through an endless signing of paperwork before he is led to a large truck. They tied his leash to the back or he would have jumped out the moment he had the chance. 

They drive the truck for some time before pulling into a huge fenced-in compound. There are uniformed soldiers everywhere, as well as a fair number of dogs, most of them Shepherds of some sort. 

The dogs seem to be training with the soldiers, much like the Police Dogs trained. John realizes with a jolt that he has just been drafted as a Military Working Dog. 

“Bill Murray, you great idiot. I said pick up puppies that could be trained. What part of that sentence told you to pick up an old wolf?” A man with Captain stripes is yelling at them, face red with rage. 

“Captain, he was trained by someone. He’ll be a good working dog,” Murray argues.

“For God’s sake, Sergeant you can run that great big beast through the course right now or you can send him back.”

“Yes, Sir,” Bill grins. He leads John into a fenced in area before unhooking the leash. 

John looks around for an escape, but the chain link fence is at least eight feet tall. Bill is standing on the other end of a wooden structure that looks like a seesaw. 

“Come here, boy,” he calls. 

John has watched dogs run through these sorts of courses before, but he has never tried it. He walks slowly up the incline until the saw tilts down towards Bill. He moves quickly down the other side, but Bill holds up his hand and he stops at the painted line on the board. 

“Good boy, now follow.”

John jumps from the saw, following Bill up another step incline and decline obstacle. From there he jumps two single bars, but is stumped at the zigzag. 

Bill runs through it to demonstrate. 

John gives him a dubious look, but carefully moves through the bars. They aren’t designed for a dog as big as him, but he manages not to knock the whole thing over. 

After that it is two double jumps and a run through a fabric tube. John makes those easily, but hesitates when he has to make his way up and down a sort of canine ladder. Bill has to coax him down from the last few steps. 

He finishes the course with two triple bar jumps, stopping directly in front of Bill and sitting for further orders. Though he hates to admit it, he is proud of his run, even if it is slow. 

The Captain gives a low whistle as he walks over. “If he wasn’t trained to this he is certainly a quick learner. All right, you get to train him, but he’s yours. If he starts acting out or can’t learn the scents, you’re stuck with him.” 

“Yes, Sir.”

****

John tries to escape every time he has a moment alone, but Bill quickly realizes he knows how to push open the locks on the kennel. 

Then he just gets to busy to try. 

Every day is spent running the courses faster and faster. When he isn’t running the course he is training with the scents. Bill takes him through rows of pipes and has him sniff each one for everything from drugs to explosives. 

John is a natural in scent training and Bill soon has him differentiating between each scent by how he indicates. 

John misses Sherlock desperately, but every night he goes to bed exhausted and delighted in the training. When he is learning to identify different poisons he keeps thinking of his human, wishing to share his new talent. 

When Bill finally puts a new collar around his neck and calls him trained, ten moon cycles have passed. With the passage of time, also comes a new name. In memory of a lost comrade, Bill calls him Watson. 

Life has become a strange thing, so John is hardly surprised when he is muzzled and Bill leads him into a massive airplane.

He is surprised when they touch down in the desert, with sand as far as the eye can see. It is so unbearably hot; John thinks he may just melt away beneath his heavy coat. 

“This is what all that training is for Watson, now it’s really time to put ourselves to the test,” Bill grins, scratching at his scruff. 

Bill is assigned to a Military Police unit that is operating as Infantry. It is a small squad of ten, eight males and two females, none of them older than thirty. 

Their first few missions involve guarding the front gates and checking the incoming vehicles and contractors for drugs or explosives. In the first week John indicates on two contractors carrying drugs and three carrying explosives. Each is contained without incident. 

As the squad grows more comfortable with each other and the harsh Afghanistan weather, they are given convoy missions outside the safety of the base. John has to wear a vest on each mission and occasionally carries spare rounds for the soldiers.   
During one such mission, the squad a couple yards ahead of them activates a daisy chain IED. The chain ends beside their unit, killing two members instantly and injuring three more. 

John and Bill are only splattered with dirt, but gunfire rains down upon them the moment the dust settles. Those capable of movement, move to the side of the road, seeking cover behind broken concrete barriers. 

John crouches beside Bill, but he can hear one of the girls crying out for help. She is injured, unable to move. John recognizes her voice as the youngest of the squad, Ruby, who often sneaks him bits of cheese in the mess hall. 

Ignoring Bills commands, John low crawls over to the girl. Bullets whizz like angry hornets overhead, but none strike him. When he reaches the girl he grabs the handle attached to her IBA and starts to haul her behind cover. It is hard going. He has to pull and stay low, but he makes it behind the wall without injury. 

“Good boy,” Bill tells him, exasperated. The medic starts to work on Ruby, wrapping the wounds and stopping the bleeding. 

John ignores Bill again to retrieve another wounded soldier, carefully making his way there and back. It is as he is pulling the third soldier to safety, that he is injured. 

There is a sharp sting at his ear as another bullet whizzes pass, then a howling, screaming, agony as pain erupts in his shoulder. He yips and whines incapable of giving voice to what he was feeling. Despite the pain, he continues to pull the man. 

Blood gushes from the wound, soaking his vest, John snarls when Bill grabs him, pulling both of them to cover. “I’ve got you Watson, Good boy.”

Everything gets fuzzy after that. John’s pretty sure he bites the hand of the medic as they shove gauze in his wound and try to wrap him up. 

He is dying; he can feel it in the way his heart slows, in the sluggishness of his limbs. ‘I don’t want to die,’ he thinks. He loves his new pack, his new humans, but he misses Sherlock desperately. Will he go into the wild beyond without ever seeing Sherlock again, without knowing if he recovered from his addiction?

‘I don’t want to go. Please God, let me live’ John thinks. Warmth blooms in his chest, expanding to a burn in his soldier. Then everything goes dark. 

When John wakes, nothing is as it should be. He jolts into waking, limbs failing every which way as he struggles for control. 

“Watson, shh, calm down. You’ll hurt your self,” Bill’s voice is soothing, but his hands are strong as he forces John back to the bed. 

“Wha,” John groans, and then freezes because words are coming out of his mouth. 

He blinks wildly, trying to remove the haze over his eyes. The colors look different, nothing looks quite right. He stares down at himself, his neck bending in a way it never has before. He is staring at two legs much longer than he is use to, two arms with hands instead of paws, and not a hint of his precious fur. 

“Watson, I can’t explain it, but its okay boy. The doctors have looked you over and say the only thing wrong is the gunshot in your shoulder. No one knows what happened, but the unit, you’re safe.” 

John looks at him with wide eyes; he has never been so scared in his life. 

Bill runs his hand through John’s hair - apparently he still had a bit of fur - and scratches lightly behind his ears. It still sends a tingle down his back, but doesn’t cause his leg to twitch like it usually does. “Good boy,” he murmurs, “good boy.” 

Strangely, everything comes out okay. It turns out they had invalided him out of Afghanistan as soon as his unit made it back to base. After years of being away from home, he is back in London. 

The doctor’s assume his silence was caused by PTSD and leave him be. Bill works with him everyday, helping John learn to work with an entirely new set of limbs. Standing on two feet is highly uncomfortable and he constantly feels as if he is moments from tipping over. 

His shoulder is sore and he has to endure hours of the physical therapist pulling and pushing at it. Apparently, he has healed amazingly well, but it does not stop him from needing to exercise it to keep scar tissue from building. John doesn’t think he will ever stop being amazed by the sight of the rippling scar. 

Learning to talk is another matter. He always thought in human words, even if he did not always understand human phrasing. The difficulty is learning how to use his new tongue. It is somehow more flexible and less than his dog tongue. 

He mostly practices speaking on his own, not willing to deal with the embarrassment of having Bill hear him slur and stutter over his words. 

When he was just a pup, his eyes still sealed shut, his mother had told them stories. They were wild fantastical things meant to amuse and lull pups to sleep. Still, he can remember the tale of the loyal hound that had been trapped in a cave with her beloved human. The human had been too injured to get out and the hound needed hands to haul them out. After days of prayer and begging, she changed from dog to human and pulled them both to safety. It was a tale of the loyalty of dog to their humans, but John had never thought there was any truth to it. He is apparently wrong. 

“Hey, Watson, how are you doing?” Bill calls, tapping at the doorway. 

“G.G.G.Good, Bill,” John grins at his friend. He walks over and holds out his hand to shake, just like Bill had shown him. 

“Oh, listen to you,” Bill grins and shakes his hand. “You don’t have to do that every time though, shaking hands is more of a just meeting thing,” 

“Oh,” John murmurs, pulling his hand back. He falls into parade rest out of habit. He has watched the soldiers fall into the position for years and it is a comfortable way of dealing with his awkward limbs. “I…er… my name is John,” John says, proud that the practiced phrase comes out properly. 

“John?” Bill blinks in surprise. “Where did that come from?”

“My. Um. My Human gave it to me.”

Bill’s brow furrows and he smells like confusion. John was endlessly pleased that his sense of smell had not changed. “Do you mean the person you belonged to before you were left at the pound?” Bill asks. 

John snarls, baring his dull fangs and growling with his inadequate lungs. “Sh.Sh. Sherlock did not abandon me. I was kid. kid. Kidnapped.” John can’t help the stuttering with his anger; it is hard to control his too short tongue. 

“Oh god Watson, I mean John, I had no idea. You had only just gotten to the pound, too. He didn’t even have the chance to come looking for you.” Bill places his head in his hands, he smells sad. 

John wraps his arms around the soldier, nuzzling against his neck. “Its okay, I liked the Army, I did,” John murmurs. He resists the urge to lick his cheek, Bill had told him that was weird. 

“You were the best damn Army Dog I’ve ever seen,’ Bill remarks, patting his head. 

“I want to find him, I want to go back home,” John urges, eyes wide. While his hair had grown a paler blond then his fur, his eyes had remained the same pale, husky blue. Bill says he gives the best puppy eyes. 

“I don’t… John it won’t be easy.”

John grins, a bit feral, “Sherlock never makes anything easy.” 

“Alright then, I’ll help you out.” 

It takes another full moon cycle for Bill to gather all of the paperwork he needs to bring John Watson into existence. He even manages to get John a small paycheck from the Army for his injury. Though it takes an entire day of lessons for John to learn about banking and money. He still doesn’t quite grasp the concept. 

Bill offers to help him find Sherlock, but John has always found his human on his own, he does not plan on changing it now. 

London is a new city seen with human eyes. Everything is a rush, an endless blur of scents, colors, and sounds. He explores at first, visiting some of his old hunting grounds. He sees new homeless men and women where he had once been called doctor and been given scraps of food from people that could not afford to give it. He checks the old spot under the bridge, but new people occupy it. 

He gives his coat to a man that is shaking with fever and suggests he get checked out at a clinic. The man looks at him in confusion until he leaves. 

He goes by Montague Street and admires the old flat, even though it is worn down and ancient. It had been home once, even if Sherlock doesn’t live there anymore. 

He goes to St. Bart’s when he can think of nowhere else to go. It is only luck that has him spotting Mike Stamford on the way there. “Mike,” he calls, excited to see the old friend that had always taken the time to pet him. 

Mike looks baffled. 

“Uh, its John, John Watson. We went to school together,” John adds, giving his best harmless smile. 

Not wanting to be rude, Mike grins, “Oh yes, of course, John. It’s been ages. What have you been up too, then?”

“I was abroad for a bit, getting shot at,” John shrugs, trying for casual.

Mike looks startled anyways. “Gosh, in the Army then?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m just settling back and trying to get a flat mate. It’s expensive in London,” John says earnestly. Bill had coached him on this sentence a few times. 

Mike chuckles like he is funny, “You’re the second person to tell me that today.” 

“Oh,” John perks up, “Who was the first?”

That is how John Watson, previous wolfdog now human, meets Sherlock Holmes for the second time. The man looks mostly the same, perhaps a little older around the eyes. He is still as pale as ever, but less sickly skinny. There isn’t even a trace of cocaine scent. 

He is in the lab, no surprise there, messing with a chemical that smells like ammonia. “Mike can I borrow your phone, no signal on mine.”

John holds his out before Mike can even decline. “Here use mine,” he suggests. His phone is a gift from Bill to keep in touch. 

“Oh, ah thank you,” Sherlock takes the phone and starts typing on it with a speed John envies. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” his ridiculous human asks. 

“Afghanistan,” John practically barks, Sherlock is deducing him. He has never really been deduced before, except for the times Sherlock would take soil samples from his paws and try to determine where he had been. 

“I play the violin when I’m bored. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you, potential flat mates should know the worst about each other,” Sherlock grins and his scent is pleased. 

John grins back, wishing he had a tail to wag. “I love the violin. I have PTSD and sometimes I howl in my sleep. Its okay though, I promise.”

Sherlock’s scent makes an odd twist between cautiously optimistic and worried. 

“Where is the flat?” John blurts, hoping to get Sherlock off track. 

“Baker Street, 221B Baker Street. I, ah, left my riding crop in the mortuary. Got to dash.” Sherlock winks out the door like he is being chased, but John doesn’t follow. 

“Thanks Mike,” John sighs to the other man. ‘God, Sherlock Holmes thinks I’m weird,’ he thinks. 

John meets Sherlock at 221B Baker Street the next day, where he also meets Mrs. Hudson, their Landlady. Apparently, Sherlock had been to Florida since they’ve been apart. 

Mrs. Hudson smells like warmth and baking, John loves her immediately. She even seems to like Sherlock, her scent radiating maternal pride. She implies something about two rooms, but John is too confused to give any reply better than a shrug. He used to share a room all the time, but he knows humans have rules about those sorts of things. 

They’re interrupted by Lestrade sprinting up the stairs. His fur has gained more grey over the years, but he still looks at Sherlock with something akin to desperation and exasperation. 

John just stops himself from hugging the man. He has missed the overworked Detective. 

Lestrade barely glances at him, instead talking to Sherlock. “There’s been another one. You know how they never leave a note, well this one did. Will you come?”

Sherlock’s scent is ramped with endorphins and excitement, but he just looks bored. “Where?”

“Brixton.”

“Whose working forensics?”

Lestrade winces, “Anderson.”

“Anderson won’t work with me.” 

“He won’t be you assistant.”

“I need an assistant,” Sherlock seems moments from whining. 

God, John has missed this. “I’ll do it, I can be your assistant.” 

“What, who are you?” Lestrade startles, looking at John seriously now. 

John grins, “I’m Sherlock’s new roommate, John Watson. I was in the Army, Afghanistan. It won’t be anything I haven’t seen.” He frowns a bit at that. He always hated seeing the bodies of his comrades, but murder victims were old hat for him and Sherlock. 

Sherlock is starring at him, eyes narrowed. He seems to be somewhere between pleased and confused. “Yes, well,” he straightens his lapel, “John will be assisting me then.” 

“You can’t bring… Christ… this is worse than, well, John. The other John.” Lestrade winces, but he doesn’t seem to be fighting the idea overly much. “Alright, fine. I’ll see you there.” 

John watches him leave before turning back to Sherlock. “Who’s John?” he asks, trying to sound innocently curious. 

“A, ah, an old friend,” Sherlock actually stutters over his words. He slips into his dramatic coat and ties his scarf to avoid showing his nerves. 

“Of course,” John grins, and isn’t sure he will ever be able to stop smiling. 

They take a taxi to the crime scene and it’s just like old times. 

John has to resist snarling at the sight of Anderson and Donovan at the crime scene, but human teeth just don’t give the right effect. Bill had also told him it wasn’t something human’s tended to do unless they were crazy. Instead, he ignores them, and lets Sherlock humiliate them with a few deductions. 

The scent of death is obvious from the first floor, but they have to make their way up eight flights of stairs to reach the attic. There is a woman laid out on the floor, dressed in a shade of pink that is frankly alarming. 

John, used to working the scene as a dog, steps up before Sherlock does. He circles around the body, discretely sniffing at the air. There is rain and perfume as the dominating scents, followed by fear. Even in death the scent is an overpowering sharp bite in his nose. There is the faintest hint of hope, then sadness, than rage. The woman was boiling in it as she carved the letters into the floor. It must have hurt, her claws are bloody with the effort, but John could imagine her thoughts in the moment of her death, hatred for the man that had offered her hope and lied. 

John has to lean close to her mouth to detect the type of poison, careful not to touch. It’s a strange one he hasn’t encountered outside of training and takes a moment to place. “Snake venom,” John mutters, surprised. 

“What did you say?” Sherlock asks, practically gawking at him. 

John gives a sheepish look as he stands. “I recognize the symptoms and the scent, its snake venom, not sure what species. It explains the cheat though, he must be immune.” 

“He?” Lestrade quirks a brow, dubious. 

“I ah, just a guess, I. um. Sherlock is much better at this than I am,” he backpedals, knowing he can’t tell them he could scent the triumphant stink of an old man. 

Sherlock takes the interest off John with a flurry of deductions. He tells Lestrade that the woman traveled from Cardiff and was murdered before reaching her hotel. He says the letters on the floor stand for Rachel and that her suitcase is missing. 

John follows after him, when Sherlock bolts down the stairs, but he looses him when Donovan stops to warn him about Sherlock being a psychopath. John barely resists growling at the woman.

He can follow Sherlock, tracking his scent is as easy as breathing, but he’s done enough strange things for today and decides a walk back to Baker Street is a good idea. 

He’s not surprised when the phones he passes start to ring. He’s seen this trick before. 

He picks up the third phone he passes and happily barks, “Mycroft, hi!”

There is a long pause of silence on the other end before Mycroft says, “Hello, John.” He says the name in such a familiar way, its obvious he knows. 

“Do you have a car for me?”

“It is pulling up now, welcome back John,” Mycroft’s voice is soft, and John likes to imagine that he actually missed him. 

He meets Anthea, whose name is not Anthea, in the car. Mycroft seems to have finally gotten himself a competent personal assistant, even if she has the people skills of a rock. 

They stop at the Diogenes. John waves off Anthea, easily remembering the route to Mycroft’s office. Its late, the entire building is empty except the office, a pleasant fire roaring behind the desk. 

Mycroft is in one of the large wingback chairs in the center of the room. There is a tea set between him and the other chair.

“How’d you know who I was?” John asks, taking the seat across from Mycroft. 

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you since Anderson and Donovan decided to play a cruel joke on my brother. Unfortunately it took my team 24 hours to report the kidnapping to me. By then you had already been taken by the army base and placed with Sergeant Murray.” 

“You could have got me back, I know you could have,” John argues.

Mycroft’s scent is tinged with regret. “At the rehab center Sherlock asked me to find a home for you and I denied him because I thought you were good for him. However, placement in the Army canine unit as a detection dog suited you well. It would be no safer than working with Sherlock, but you seemed to enjoy the structure and the training. I thought it best to leave you be.” 

“You visited me?” John asks. He thinks he would have remembered Mycroft’s, scent but those first few weeks at the training grounds were so focused and exhausting he very well might not have noticed. 

“Of course, I wasn’t going to trust your safety to just anyone.” 

John peers at his teacup, contemplating this new information. He has missed Sherlock desperately, but had loved the Army. It suited him in a way, and he wasn’t sure he would have had the will to become human in London. He would be an old dog now, ancient for his size and unable to protect his human. Changing has added years to his life he would never have gotten otherwise. “ How did you know I…er” he indicates his new body. 

“I was informed the moment Watson appeared on the fallen soldiers list. I am unsure if I would have made the connection is it was not for the sudden appearance of John Watson in a hospital in London. Formally of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, and somehow accompanied by SGT. Bill Murray.” Mycroft has the slightest of smirks on his lips, an expression very similar to one of Sherlock’s favorites. 

“I’m still learning a lot, Humans are strange creatures and there is so much to remember,” John fiddles with his cup, he knows he has been mucking things up the last couple of days. 

“My brother is quite possibly the worst example of proper human behavior, but I know better than to separate you twice, not after you came back.” Mycroft goes to his desk and pulls out a small box from the bottom drawer. “This is yours.”

John opens the lid with reverence; he can smell the old leather before he even sees it. It’s his old collar, the leather is well worn, the inside almost smooth. He runs his fingers along the ‘John’ engraving. There is another engraving on the inside that he has never noticed reading ‘Sherlock Holmes’ and their old address in Montague Street. 

“You know I almost bit your fingers when you put this on me. I thought I never wanted to be tied down, that Sherlock was my human because I chose him. My mother and brother were so proud of their collars, I thought it was silly,” John runs his fingers along the smooth leather. 

“You certainly snarled enough about it. I was always under the impression you were raised wild, however.” Mycroft looks genuinely curious. 

John grins, wishing he had fangs to show. “My dad was a wolf, but my mom was a shepherd/husky mix at a farm in the country. I was the only half-wolf, the farmer didn’t trust me around the animals so I ran away. When I first saw Sherlock I thought he looked half wolf himself, like something wild. I decided I wanted him to be my human so I kept an eye on him. “

Mycroft sighs, eyes soft with memories, “I will forever be grateful for your choice John. If you ever need anything, you know I will do what I can.” He stands, straightening his suit, “I think it is time for you to return to Baker Street.”

“You know I offer the same Mycroft, you’ve been pack for a long time,” John hugs the man, because dogs were touchy by nature and because he knows it will make Mycroft uncomfortable. 

Anthea takes him back to Baker Street, where John finds Sherlock sprawled across the sofa. 

“Good, you got my text,” Sherlock remarks, not even bothering to open his eyes. 

John pulls his mobile out and fumbles with the buttons. There are 3 text messages, but John can barely read them. The text is so small and some of the words he doesn’t recognize. “Ah, no I had the noise off,” John blushes, he hates the beeping noise the thing makes. It is shrill and seems to burrow into his brain. 

“I need you to send a text, the number is on the table,” Sherlock waves in the general direction. 

John finds the number, which is beside the pink suitcase Sherlock had been shouting about earlier. “Oh good, you found the case,” he scrunches his nose in distaste, “in a skip, clearly.” The scent of rotting garbage is practically wafting from the thing. 

Sherlock sits up and stares at him, the same piercing gaze he has been giving since they met. 

John offers a harmless smile while he hands over his phone and the paper. 

“You can send it, exactly this; ‘what happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out, 22 Northumberland Street, please come,” Sherlock says in a tone John usually associates with military orders. 

“Sorry, can’t,” John holds his phone out more forcefully. He can barely manage to text, ‘I’m ok,’ he’s not going to attempt full sentences. 

Sherlock takes the phone, slowly. “You can’t read, or if you can its at a low level. The military only requires the minimum education level,” Sherlock blurts out the deduction like he can’t help himself. 

John’s not offended because it’s true. He knows every street sign in London and knows a large collection of military terms, but writing and reading isn’t something normally needed by someone with paws. “I’m not stupid, it just wasn’t something I was ever taught.” 

“Hmm, no, you are certainly more intelligent than most of the idiots wandering about,” Sherlock says. He sends the text with a flurry of typing before handing the phone back. 

They end up going to Angelo’s for dinner, where Sherlock better explains how he found the case and why he thinks the murderer has the phone. John is as fascinated as ever, and pleased to see Angelo again. 

He’s not surprised that the large burglar finally got his restaurant opened. The man greets Sherlock like a long lost son, exuding affection and pride. 

John doesn’t pay any attention to the candle placed on the table; instead he searches the menu, eager to try more human food. 

Sherlock keeps an eye out the window, completely ignoring food, as per usual. “My brother kidnapped you,” he comments, apropos of nothing. 

“Hmm,” John hums around a piece of braised beef, its delicious. He chews slowly, contemplating how to get out of this conversation. 

He is saved when a taxi pulls up across the street and Sherlock goes bolting after it. 

John, as he always does, follows after. 

They sprint across London, jumping over rooftops and barreling down alleys. 

John has never been so happy, running at his human’s side as he is meant to. While two legs is not nearly as swift as four John finds going up and down ladders to be remarkably easier. 

They stop the taxi, but the man in the back is not the right one. It is only as the taxi pulls away that John catches the slightest whiff of the killer. 

They race back to Baker Street, partially to avoid the police and partially to enjoy the high of adrenaline surging in their veins. 

“That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done,” John pants, holding himself up against the wall. 

Sherlock glances sideways at him a childish grin on his lips. “And you invaded Afghanistan.”

“Not by myself,” John says, remembering running at Bill’s side in the Afghani heat. 

“Sherlock, what have you done now,” Mrs. Hudson sounds worried as she comes around the corner. 

John sniffs the air, and catches the scent of the police wafting along the corridor and up the stairs. How had he missed it before?

They bolt up the stairs and into the room where police are digging through their things. John growls deep in his throat, furious to have his territory invaded. 

Lestrade is perched on Sherlock’s chair like he belongs there. 

John likes the man, but he doesn’t like him now. “Get out of the house,” he snarls. Sally and Anderson are there too, digging through their belongs, spreading their horrible scents over everything. 

“This is a drugs bust, I’m just doing what I have to do,” Lestrade speaks softly soothingly. 

“Then take the case and leave, there is no cocaine in this flat,” John speaks fiercely. He had searched the flat the moment he had stepped foot in it. There wasn’t a hint of bitter cocaine scent to be found. 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is soft and for a moment he sounds like he used to talk to John the dog. 

“Sorry,” John murmurs, avoiding his gaze. 

Sherlock berates Lestrade in his own way. He goes on about the woman and pink and the supposed Rachel. Rachel happens to be the woman’s unborn daughter. 

John feels his heart clench for her. Losing a pup must be a horrible thing. “Bit not good,” he murmurs when Sherlock doesn’t seem to understand. 

Its funny to see the detective looking to him for advice in human norm when he had been berating John just moments before. 

What happens next is a whir of confusion, which is the only explanation John can give for his complete lack of attention. 

While John is trying to figure out how to use the map on the computer, Sherlock disappears with a cabbie. 

It is only after the cops leave, that John catches the whiff of the murderer once more. The realization hits him over the head, the cabbie!

He barrels out the door, running after the vague scent of his human. He manages to fumble through calling Lestrade, telling him that Sherlock is with the killer. He hangs up when Lestrade starts to yell at him. 

John follows the scent to two brick buildings in the middle of the city. Tracking Sherlock and the cabbie to the right building is easy. He takes the stairs two at a time, sniffing the air as he goes. 

He finds the cabbie pointing a gun at Sherlock, two poisoned pills between them. 

The urge to protect, to defend, is so overwhelming it burns in his bones. His human teeth are dull, his claws blunt things. He rushes into the room on all fours, bones snap and creak and ache. 

He ploughs into the cabbie at full force, teeth crunching bone and tearing jugular. Blood spurts around his jaw, filling his mouth with warm metallic. 

When they both fall to the ground, he is on all fours, claws clicking on the floor. He drops the old man, startled to find himself as a wolfdog once more. 

“John,” Sherlock literally squeaks. His eyes are wide, his mouth dropped open. 

John steps away from the body and thinks of his human shape, of his useful fingers and strange tongue. His bones shift and grind as he twists back into shape. 

He sits back on his feet, now a human once more. However the process works, he is still wearing his clothes. 

“Are you alright?” John asks. 

“Yes, ah, yes I’m fine,” Sherlock blinks himself out of is stupor. “How?” he gestures at John. 

“I’m not sure I can explain, but er, this isn’t good huh?” John mutters. 

“This is going to be rather hard to explain, I need to call Mycroft,” Sherlock scowls at his brother’s name. 

John sits away from the body; it already smells of death, though he is not sorry for his actions. 

Sherlock speaks quickly, explaining the situation to Mycroft. He hangs up the phone with a beep. “I should have known you were different, its always something,” Sherlock scoffs, flopping down beside John. 

John chuckles, leaning against his side. “I don’t think even you could deduce this one.”

Sherlock leans into his warmth. “I’ve…” he takes a long pause, listening to the scream of sirens in the distance. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah, I missed you too,” John rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in his scent. The scent still means home, and yeah, a bit of danger and adventure too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thats it. Hope you enjoyed the story. This whole thing was only supposed to be a little snippet, 36 pages later I've got this. Whoops.

**Author's Note:**

> Alltoseek helped beta this for me, but I went back and switched the whole fic to present tense, so if there are any typos or grammatical errors it is entirely my fault. 
> 
> This idea came to me not so long ago and practically wrote it self. I can not even begin to explain what I was thinking.
> 
> The pics were done by me, I am so out of practice its not even funny, but I love that AO3 lets you add pictures so I thought you guys might enjoy how I see wolfdog John. Sherlock is surprisingly hard to draw, I'm not sure my version looks anything like him but eh


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